


The Key to Your Heart

by daggerpen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, sebastian vael (sebastian critical)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4037029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerpen/pseuds/daggerpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another #anderspositive week entry. I always found it weird how you don't give Anders the key to the tunnel until Act 3 in the Anders romance, and how Anders' Clinic never changes location despite the templars looking for it in earlier acts. This fic attempts to address both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Key to Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Well this has been kind of a weird fic. Heads up for some Sebastian critical stuff within, by the way.
> 
> Also, for those wondering about a certain turn of phrase - [elephants exist in Thedas, I checked](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Tevinter_Imperium#Politics).

“I need to move my Clinic again.”

The announcement comes over a late dinner, bread and wine and a stew left to simmer for hours above the fire. Between Anders’ clinic and increasingly desperate mage underground work and Hawke’s various erratic duties as the Champion, the two are frequently out at odd hours, and they’ve found themselves making a point to at least end the day like this together. Whatever disorganized, hectic messes their lives have become, they will not let it steal away their time with each other.

Hawke sets his drink down slowly, thinking over his response carefully. ‘The templars are supposed to leave you alone’ is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, the statement sounding too much like doubt over outrage. He’s been learning, reluctantly, to pick his words more carefully, a habit ingrained less by his lover of three years now and more by the ceaseless, frustrating politicking demanded by this white elephant of a title. And damn this all, that it’s seeping into the privacy of his own home, and yet its purported privileges seem to be failing now at their one benefit. “Are the templars breaking the deal again?”

‘Deal,’ perhaps, is a misnomer. There have been no papers signed, no terms set down. But there is, certainly, an understanding. However much three years under Meredith’s de facto rule had strengthened the Knight-Commander’s forces, it had equally weakened Kirkwall’s standing in the eyes of its many would-be conquerors. And so the Champion had been  _persuaded_ to step in, discouraging the assorted polite and thinly veiled overtures of invasion and bolstering the city’s reputation… and, in the process, Meredith’s own power. It was a dance he hated, the careful balance of protecting Kirkwall and opposing the Knight-Commander, and as Kirkwall grew safer and Hawke more influential, their conflict had grown more and more open.

At first, the templars had gone the aggressive route, seeking to bring Hawke’s more vulnerable friends under their control. Bethany alone was no longer enough, they knew, Hawke understanding full well that Meredith would not sacrifice her only leverage over their more minor power struggles. And so the templars had combed the Alienage and Darktown, only to find its residents closing ranks to protect their own - not to mention a strangely large number of their scouts dead, flesh rent not by magic but by dual, quick daggers.

Meredith had been more open to negotiation after that. And so Hawke’s apostate friend and lover had found themselves living in uneasy safety once again, the message clear - their peace for his cooperation.

But if the templars are moving on Anders now, then Meredith is changing the game again. And whatever disorganized mess of a man Hawke can be, however tired he is of politics and shadow games neither player has the patience for, he will act before they can steal yet more family from him.

“They’re not looking for  _me_ ,” Anders replies.

Oh. Of course. The mage underground. Anders has been getting involved with that again, the resistance group’s situation becoming increasingly dire as Meredith tightens her grip on the city. The templars won’t touch Anders, perhaps, but they’ll gladly use him to hunt the others. Hawke only wishes he could do more to help - he’s offered, time and time again, but Anders always refuses, not wanting to give Meredith the leverage she needs to bring Hawke down when his convenience is at an end. Cavorting about with apostates and publicly challenging the Knight-Commander is one thing; active involvement with dangerous rebels quite another, and it could easily lose Hawke the backing of the other nobles if discovered, Anders argues. Hawke thinks the rest of Hightown can hang, as far as he’s concerned, but Anders won’t be swayed.

“How much longer will it be safe for?” Hawke asks instead.

Anders shrugs. “Maybe a week,” he says, then stands. “I should get to bed. Early morning.”

“I’ll be right there,” Hawke tells him, looking back at the table as Anders leaves.

The mage has barely touched the food.

They can’t go on like this.

* * *

He’d sealed off the tunnel years ago. It had seemed a liability then, mere months after they’d moved into the Estate. A sure route for thieves and general ne’er-do-wells, to say nothing of the myriad and exciting thugs seeking to make him pay for his uncle’s debts. With Anders’ Clinic located halfway across Darktown at the time, and the two still telling themselves their feelings were passing infatuation, nothing more, Hawke hadn’t thought twice about it. And over time, he’d forgotten about it entirely.

He feels like a fool, now, for not thinking of this before. Anders’ clinic has had scores of bases over the six years he’d been running it, the lit lantern of Darktown chased from hole in the wall to hole in the wall. And yet even after Hawke had ascended to nigh untouchability, after he’d stretched his influence to cover Anders’ Clinic, the idea had never occurred to him. Until now.

“Well  _someone_ has to own it, dammit.” Hawke props his feet on the low table, the drunken bustle of the Hanged Man’s main room audible through the floor of Varric’s suite.

Theoretically speaking, all this… process is unnecessary. Ill advised, even. The building is abandoned - no one would give half a damn if Anders set up shop, most likely. Having Hawke’s name on it could easily blow up in his face. But it gives him power, too, like cheers in the Viscount’s Keep with apostates at his back, like a red cloth with a crest tied around a wrist in Darktown. It means looking a templar in the eye and telling him to get off his property without more reason than _that_.

If he only knew _how_ to buy the damned thing in the first place. “Aren’t there records or something?” Hawke continues.

“There are records for everything, Hawke,” Varric tells him, leaning back in his own chair. “Why do you need my help with this?”

“Why do I ever need your help with something?” Hawke asks, and there’s a bit more of an admission in the words than he’d prefer. For all that Hawke has a reputation for getting things done, he’s not very good at… doing things. Set him out a plan and he’ll follow it. Point him at a target and he’ll kill it. Put him in the middle of a party and he’ll snark and imply until his point is made. But a big, vague goal like this? There are too many steps, too many unknowns, and he doesn’t know where to start. Aside from going to the Viscount’s office and asking everyone vaguely official until someone coughs up, he supposes, but he wants to be  _quiet_ about this. He won’t tip his hand before the deed’s even done. But Varric, Varric knows the right ears for this kind of thing, and for all his grousing and avoidance he’s far better at _projects_ than Hawke could ever be.

“... I’ll ask around,” Varric tells him, and Hawke smiles with the relief.

* * *

“So I have good news and bad news,” Varric announces the next day, back once again in the privacy of his suite.

This concerns him. Varric must have found the owner of the warehouse - Hawke doubts he’d have called him here otherwise. So if that’s the good news, what’s the bad news? The owner doesn’t want to sell? The owner is dead and it’s gone back to the city? It’s owned by the de Launcets? It’s owned by  _Meredith_? “I’m not sure I like the sound of this,” Hawke says.

“I found your warehouse owner. It belongs to the de Fleur family.”

Hawke stops. Thinks. Should he know that name? He doesn’t have the slightest patience for most of the Kirkwall nobility, but after six years living in Hightown, he’s sure he knows all the local families. Doesn’t he? “I’ve never heard of them,” he admits at last.

“That’s because they moved to Starkhaven about ten years ago,” Varric tells him. He pauses, and adds, “That’s the bad news.”

“They… moved,” Hawke says slowly.

“Yes.”

“To Starkhaven.”

“Yes.”

Hawke groans into his hands.

* * *

“This… is your new Clinic?”

Anders had mentioned it to him this morning, Hawke walking him as far as the entrance to Darktown before they went their separate ways for the day. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have been surprised - trying to find a discreet way to contact the de Fleurs had been going nowhere, and he hadn’t wanted to tell Anders the news until things had been resolved. He’d hate to get his hopes up over nothing, or, worse, to have him moved in only for Hawke’s interest in the property to spread around and send Anders hastily fleeing  _another_ clinic. So of course Anders had moved already.

It’s just that…

“Maker, Anders, even for Darktown…”

The place is terrible. The haphazard lanterns scattered about within barely light the interior of the windowless building - a small blessing, perhaps, given the general state of the rotting wood passing for walls - and worse than that, it’s cramped. There’s barely any room for the patients, and Hawke  _knows_ Anders is claustrophobic. “Anders, come on. You can do better than this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Anders says, clearly trying to convince himself. He shrugs, arms crossed in front of him and shoulders tight against the closeness of the walls, and Hawke isn’t sure whether to step back to give him more space or to move in and comfort him. He settles for a kind of awkward sidestep, standing by his elbow. “Look, there’s a tunnel-” he leans down and slides open a panel, revealing a space hardly big enough for a man to crawl through. “It won’t work for patients, obviously, but there’s an outlet a few blocks away. The rest of the underground can slip in.” Bitterly, he follows, “There’s enough room.”

Hawke suppresses a wince. “Well, that’s all well and good for the underground,” he says slowly, “But are you- your patients going to be able to  _fit_ in here?”

Anders shrugs again, not looking at him. “It’s only for a little while,” he says. “Until I can find someplace better.”

Hawke opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head. “I’ll see you at home later,” he says.

“You’re leaving?” Anders asks. “I thought you were done for the day.”

“It just came up,” Hawke tells him. “I have business in the Chantry.”

* * *

“I need a favor.”

He hadn’t wanted to do this. He really hadn’t. It’s not that - Sebastian is a friend. A _good_ friend, mostly, as long as they’re not talking about - anything to do with mages or the Chantry. He’s always there with a sympathetic ear, especially when the responsibilities of Championhood weigh and Hawke wants nothing more than a place to hide. But when it comes to Anders?

Sebastian makes Anders feel _unsafe_ , and Hawke’s not honestly sure he can tell him he’s wrong. The truth is, Hawke had always just… assumed Sebastian would change his mind about the Circle eventually. That friendship with the son and brother of apostates and general contact with Anders and Merrill -  _especially_ Anders - would sway him, the same as it (mostly) had Aveline. The reality has been… underwhelming, and largely left Hawke juggling yet more various friend, along with a healthy dose of guilt.

So altogether, Hawke would really rather not Anders feel like he owes Sebastian anything. Which is why Hawke will probably never tell him about this particular portion of the proceedings.

“You’re sending an envoy to Starkhaven, right?” he continues awkwardly. “Do you think maybe they could… make a detour?”

“... to?” Sebastian asks, confused.

“I need someone to send an offer to the de Fleur family,” he hedges.

“The de Fleurs?” Sebastian asks, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble, but I’m not sure why you need me for this. You have messengers of your own, don’t you?”

“Yes, but your messengers are much less likely to be intercepted by Meredith.”

 _That_ gets him a look. “Hawke…”

“It’s nothing you’d disapprove of!” Hawke says quickly, which is technically mostly accurate. “They just… have something I need, and I really don’t want this to get any more political than it has to.”

And he’s said exactly the right thing. When it comes to matters of religion and apostasy, he and Sebastian could hardly be more at odds, but if there’s one thing that he can always rely on Sebastian for, it’s a genuine, deep-seated loathing of politics.

“I’ll arrange things.”

* * *

“There’s someone here to see you, Messere.”

Hawke has no idea what he’s in for when Bodahn’s announcement interrupts his breakfast, a late, solitary affair in Anders’ absence. Hawke’s expecting a messenger, hopefully with word on the warehouse, more likely with some political headache or another. He is certainly  _not_ expecting an  _envoy_ , finery and all.

“Champion Hawke,” she begins. “I am Ser Arabelle, second daughter of the de Fleur family. I believe we have business.”

Hawke blinks at her. Stares. Blinks again.

“... why don’t you come in?” he says at last, already wondering why in Andraste’s name he hadn’t just had Anders move in in the first place.

“I must say,” she begins, “Your letter caught us rather by surprise. My family was not even aware we still  _had_ property in Kirkwall.”

“An easy enough oversight, I forget about spare buildings all the time,” Hawke says, putting on a smile. “But it’s simple enough to correct. Now, shall we discuss the price? I can offer-”

She holds up a hand. “A moment, please.” Hawke’s stomach drops. She’s turned the discussion away from coin. That’s _never_ a good thing. “If I may be so bold, I’m curious as to why, exactly, you need this warehouse so badly.”

“What?” Hawke regrets the reaction as soon as it’s out of his mouth - that kind of flat confusion amounts to as much as an admission of weakness when it comes to this kind of thing. Trying to recover, he continues - “I can’t imagine why that matters. Ser Arabelle. It’s a convenient location-”

“Is it? My understanding is that Darktown property is hardly… coveted,” she continues. “And more than that, your letter emphasized that you desired a certain level of… timeliness and discretion.”

Hawke gives her a long, assessing look. “You don’t want money,” he says eventually. It’s not a question.

“You could simply purchase the property from us, true,” she confirms. “You could give a hundred times its worth to us, and it would both waste far more than you’d care to pay and offer far less profit to us than what I am about to propose.”

“... and that is?” he asks reluctantly.

“As it happens, your timing is very… fortuitous,” she says slowly. “Our family used to trade in Kirkwall, understand, but the late Viscount Dumar declined to renew our contracts.”

“And, what, you’ve been looking to come back?” he asks.

“Quite.” She folds her hands. “Unfortunately, it appears there is competition for our new contract. Having the support of the Champion would be a great advantage.”

And there it is. Hawke takes a while to consider his words before finally speaking, “Let’s say I agree to this proposal. There are… things I’d like to move into the property in question. How soon would I be able to do that?”

“The official transfer would, of course, take some time,” she says. “But with your agreement? As soon as you’d like.”

“What do I need to do?”

* * *

“For the Maker’s sake, draw the curtains! Do you know what could happen if the Knight-Commander’s spies catch two apostates talking?”

“No. What?”

Merrill’s visiting when Hawke gets back, and Anders is in a _mood_. Hawke can only wince at the exchange that follows, Merrill too uninvolved with the remnants of the mage underground still left in Kirkwall to understand the cause for his fears, and Anders too wrapped up in his own fears to understand Merrill’s lack of context.

“No wonder the demons found you such easy prey” is probably uncalled for, though. Hawke should probably talk to him about that, he knows. But not now. Not while Anders is scared and hurting, not while Hawke is holding the lifeline he’d been fighting for weeks to get.

“Her ignorance will be what draws the templars down on us,” Anders says, pacing in frustration.

Hawke interrupts his movement, feeling the solid of the metal in his hand. “Well,” he says, putting on a smile. “If you’re really worried about the templars, have I got a deal for you...”

* * *

“It’s perfect. I’m sorry.”

They’ve turned in for the night when Anders speaks up, curled up at his back in the bed they share.

“What’s this, now?” Hawke asks, rolling to face the mage.

“The new Clinic. I haven’t thanked you properly.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hawke tells him, placing a hand over Anders’. “I want you to have a safe place.”

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No more than you’re worth.” Hawke smiles, warm and genuine and increasingly rare, and feels Anders squeeze his hand in return.

“Things are coming to a head,” Anders says seriously. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. If it ever will.”

“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I’m with you, no matter what, Anders,” Hawke tells him. Gently, he pulls Anders’ hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to his fingers. “And you’re worth any trouble it’ll cost.”


End file.
